


The Danger Nights to the Radiant Days

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's New Years Eve and John has picked up a hobby in Sherlock's absence.  Is it enough to fill the void or will someone have to rescue him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Danger Nights to the Radiant Days

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts and my friends Liz and Amy delivered. Liz wanted John playing the Cello and Amy wanted something about New Years so I took liberty with their suggestions and here we are. Not beta'd so if there are any mistakes just let me know.

John contemplated the date. It was the 2nd New Years after... well after.  That was what the years had become apparently. There was the time before, the time with blinding light and loud sounds and searing bright colour. The time after was dull and silent and grey, like someone had once again pulled the plug on his life and drained or away. He sighed, pulling himself up from the armchair he was slumped in. Holidays had made him melancholy in the after, the clamour of other people running and laughing, living, was too much. Christmas was almost abhorrent in its vibrance.   
He went to his room (but it wasn't his room was it, not the room he wanted but also not the room he was avoiding with a single minded determination) and collected the case.   
If asked, John couldn't answer why he had begun to learn the cello. Perhaps it was an attempt to being himself closer to... Him, to keep there connection flowing even though it was damaged irrevocably, ripped from the grousing roots and torn. Perhaps it was the resonating power of the instrument, playing notes which reflected the darkness in his inner thoughts, sweeping and low. It was rather a lovely sound when played properly, deep and thoughtful. Much like a person he wished he could forget. Perhaps it was the difficulty, the slow build if progress that could only be achieved by obstaine patience and continuous, steadfast practice. These John knew how to do and knew how to do them well.  It gave him a goal to work towards. That's what he needed right now, something to grow towards.  
He wasn't sure if it was normal, this pulling, sinking feeling while playing that began upon the first, tentative connection of bow and string but he couldn't find it in himself to care much. It was soothing and necessary, especially tonight when the longing and missing reached a peak.   
However, as he began to forget slightly, as the memories that replayed in his mind, the ones he hoarded for himself, the smiles and the laughs, the danger nights to the radiant days, as they began to fall away and the air filled with his, admittedly novice, song, that's when he heard it. Very faintly, the soft strains of a violin, sweeping in to duet. John froze. The other mystery player paused too. He attempted to control the crack appearing in his mind, the one that held back those feelings. His mind was not that strong. The barrier broke. His heart tore open once more. He began to play again, now encouraging the seemingly similarly heart broken individual.  
The song soared and rose, elevating, saving, a cocoon enticing, before crashing, a caphony of loss and despair. It was perfect.   
When the inevitable happened and the song ended, John wondered about going to find the other musician. The way they played suggested they were far more accomplished than he was but it would seem polite to say a thanks at least. He glanced at his watch. Shit, he was going to be late. No time for introductions then.  
***  
He was fairly sure that Greg was oblivious to the fact that he knew why he got an invite to this party. It was no small secret that both Molly and Greg were worried about him but if they wanted to pretend that this was an opportunity for them to set him up with someone then so be it. There was a few familiar faces who he chatted to idly. Greg appeared to be consciously keeping him away from Anderson (who was oddly sporting a jumper much like his own at home) but he managed to exchange a few civil words with an uncomfortable Sally. However, as the time ticked closer to a brand new year, Johns previously ambivalent attitude slipped closer to its now habitual slump.   
"Ah Dr Watson. Just the person I was hoping to meet," a slick, measured voice spoke in his ear.  
"Mycroft? What the hell are you doing here?" John asked, surprised at seeing the untouchable British Government mingling with the rabble assembled at Greg's flat. Surely he should be at a town house somewhere discussing international secrets over champagne.   
"Delivering a message it seems. The garden at midnight."  
"Who?" John scowled.  
"A friend I promise you. I do hope you have a pleasant evening," Mycroft said cryptically before disappearing into the crowd, preventing John from questioning him further. He briefly considered not turning up just out of spite but his curiosity got the better of him.  
It was freezing in the courtyard optimistically called the garden by the residents of the flats. John began to consider that this was some set up by Mycroft to kidnap him or worse. It was probably a bit not good that his first thoughts were 'at least it's something interesting.'  
10...9...8  
Here we go.  
7...6...5  
It was so bloody dark.  
4...3...2  
Long arms wrapped around him and an impossible deep baritone whispered in his ear.   
"Happy New Years John."  
1...  
He spun around so quickly that it was only Sherlock's reflexes that prevented them from colliding heads. Sherlock decidedly not dead head. Verdigris eyes bore into his own as Sherlock held him at arms length, seeming unsure.  
"Sh-Sherlock?"  
No. No it wasn't. Couldn't.    
"Hello John."   
But it was.  
"Sherlock."   
John spent another moment basking in the multitude of feeling; a tidal wave made of bricks but so good and sweet because it meant life again.   
Then he pushed them aside. There would be another time to sort through and deal and explain and understand. But this wasn't it.  
He tangled his fingers in inky curls and then dragged the worlds only consulting detectives lips to his.   
Fireworks lit up the sky behind them, blinding, glittering colour against the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this and if you have any prompts or suggestions or just want to say hey come find me at http://dinosaursdontplaypianos.tumblr.com/


End file.
